


let me down slowly

by wordsfallapart



Series: of monsters and teenagers [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bobby POV, Dean POV, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, John Winchester is Missing, Parent Dean Winchester, Sam POV, Teenage AU, Weechesters, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsfallapart/pseuds/wordsfallapart
Summary: sam gets hurt. dean is desperate. bobby helps out. the three of them don’t know what to do about john.(or: dean takes an injured sam to bobby’s house. he has nowhere else to go, because dad’s gone, and that pisses bobby off.)(au where supernatural begins when sam is 13 and dean is 17, when on july 4, 1996, after coming home from setting off fireworks in a field, sam and dean discover that their father is missing. this fic is set maybe a month or so after.)
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester & John Winchester
Series: of monsters and teenagers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159277
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	let me down slowly

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, you should know that although this fic is multi-chaptered, this first chapter can stand alone. and for the record, chapter titles are important, a kind of summary.
> 
> i have a little bit of a story here. i sat down to write this fic a few months ago. it was meant to be a pre-series oneshot in which sam gets hurt on a hunt and dean, frantic, takes him to bobby’s because john is off on another hunt. dean was about 19, and sam 15. 
> 
> i ran into a wall with it. i didn’t like it very much. it felt unsubstantial, ephemeral, stupid. i’m prone to writing stand-alone oneshots that really don’t matter in the greater context of a piece of media, and i usually enjoy that. but this one didn’t sit right with me. and then, well. a little while ago, @marymotherof (jane) over on tumblr started posting about a teenage au, in which the show starts when sam is 13 and dean 17. i’d sometimes considered: what if sam and dean were younger when the show started? i figured it’d be more twisted and fucked up but i never thought deeply about it. but oh my god. this au. it’s genius. jane started making these absolutely brilliant posts, detailing and manipulating different plot points and pointing out new dynamics. 
> 
> it struck me like a brick to the head: this au is perfect for this little fic i felt stuck on. so i reworked parts of it and gave it a different context, lowered their ages to fit the au. and yeah, it still doesn’t have too much of a plot. it’s me trying to figure out how i want all the relationships to change, especially sam and dean’s dynamic by adding elements of dean being parental (more than that, even maternal!) and protective and sam having that hero worship and dependence on dean, being so young. hell, one day i might still revisit that old pre-series idea, where sam and dean are young and just hanging out. but for this little fic, at this moment, this au is perfect for it.
> 
> so yeah, this one’s dedicated to @marymotherof . thanks, jane.
> 
> work and chapter titles taken from 'let me down slowly' by alec benjamin

The thunderous banging at Bobby’s door on Wednesday evening at 11:11 startled the shit out of him. His heartbeat quickened as he reached for the shotgun leaning against the wall beside him.  


“ _Bobby_!” he heard, and those two syllables tore from Dean’s throat so desperately that Bobby immediately dropped his weapon and hurried toward the door, wrenching it open. Dean practically fell into the foyer, Sam’s scrawny body cradled securely in his arms, blood smeared across his hands and arms. Dean was breathing heavily, Sam whining like a wounded animal, forehead pressed tightly into his big brother’s neck.  


Bobby shifted out of the way and let Dean run ahead of him to the boys’ room. He heard Sam gasp shudderingly, “Dean,” and then Dean’s voice, gently shushing him, “It’s okay, I got you, you’re safe, we’re at Bobby’s, just hold on, buddy.”  


He placed him gently on the bed closest to the door as Bobby rushed to get the med kit. When he came back, Dean was stroking through Sam’s hair with one hand, the other on his neck, large against Sam’s collarbone and thumb on his jaw to keep his head from flopping to the side. “Hey, Sammy-Sam,” he murmured, “It’s gonna be alright, just gotta stay awake for me, okay? Can you do that for me?”  


Sam hazily blinked back, tears running down his face, and gave the barest tilt of his head to indicate his acquiescence. Bobby placed the med kit and towels on the bed and sat at the edge of the bed to get a closer look at Sam’s injuries. It was hard to tell with all the blood, but Bobby could see the nasty bump on his head and his hands clenched against his left side.  


Dean snapped the lid of the med kit open and carefully pulled Sam’s hands aside. Grabbing the scissors sitting at the top of the box, he began to cut the shirt away from the wound, Sam whimpering in pain while Dean murmured a constant litany of “It’s okay, baby, gonna be just fine, I promise, I promise” as he got the shirt out of the way.  


Bobby let out a hiss when he saw the deep, ragged, six-inch long claw marks down Sam’s side. “Dean, he needs a hospital” he said, quietly.  


“Can’t go to a hospital,” Dean said as he began mopping up the blood so he could see the wound better.  


“Dean—”  


“ _Bobby_ ,” Dean said, grating and harsh, “if I take him to a hospital, he won’t get treated and he’ll get taken away from me. I am seventeen fucking years old. And you can’t take him, because you aren’t a legal guardian. So are you going to help my kid or not?”  


“ _Dean_ —” this time his name came, broken with pain and tears, from Sam. Dean immediately turned toward him, posture and voice softening as he stroked a bloodied hand down Sam’s face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay, Sammy, you don’t hafta talk—”  


“I’m _sorry_ , ‘m so sorry, Dee, shoulda been more—” he broke off as he began to sob harder.  


“No, no, not your fault, don’t say that, okay, don’t cry, baby, you’re fine, everything’s gonna be okay,” Dean soothed as his thumb circled over the apple of Sam’s cheek. “Just hang on for me, okay?”  


Sam nodded, tipping his face into Dean’s hand, tears still running down his cheeks silently.  


Bobby gave a worried, reluctant nod when Dean shot a glare over his shoulder at him. He rummaged through the med kit to pull out bandages, and handed the bottle of alcohol to Dean. Dean popped it open and bent over Sam. He poured some out over a clean towel and gripped Sam’s right hip, his palm spanning halfway across his stomach.  


“Gonna clean it first, okay?”  


Sam nodded again, but twitched away in anticipation of the pain. Dean pushed down hard against his hip to keep him still, and Sam reached out with his right hand and circled it around Dean’s wrist.  


As Bobby prepped the needle, he heard Dean whispering, “Knock knock, Sammy.”  


Sam shook his head, but Dean insisted, “C’mon, knock knock.”  


“Who’s th—” Sam’s response cut off with a small choked-off shout of agony.  


“Good job, kiddo,” said Dean as he poured more alcohol on the wound, and Sam whimpered. Bobby reached up and ran his hand over Sam’s head, half an oxycodone tablet in his other palm. He made Sam take it, holding the class of water to his lips as he drank. Once that was down, he held up a piece of wadded up cloth. “Open up, son. Bite down on this, don’t want you to bite your tongue off.” He carefully fit the cloth in and stood to go back to the bathroom to wash his hands again.  


When he came back, Dean was finished with Sam’s side and was working on putting a couple of butterflies on Sam’s forehead. He could see blood on Dean’s wrist leaking out of the little half-moon cuts from Sam’s fingernails, but Dean didn’t pull away from Sam’s grip or ask him to ease up.  


Bobby snapped on a pair of gloves over his cleaned hands and picked up the needle. “Hold him down, Deano.” Dean nodded and gathered Sam into himself, pinning Sam’s hands to his chest. “I’m gonna make this quick as I can, Sam,” he assured the younger Winchester. Sam nodded, hair ruffling against Dean’s shoulder.  


Sam bodily flinched when the needle pierced his skin, more from residual fear than pain, and Bobby pulled the needle through, saying, “You have to keep still, Sam.”  


When Sam flinched again, hard, at the second stitch, Dean tightened his grip further. “Don’t move. C’mon, you can do it, Sam,” he said, voice deepened and gruff with the command. Sam immediately stilled, and held the position as Bobby continued to work.  


He still trembled and flinched minutely, but had his hands curled into Dean’s shirt and muffled his whimpers in Dean’s neck. Bobby could hear Dean keeping up a quiet steady stream of comfort and encouragement as Sam worked to stay unmoving. It was remarkable, really, the way Dean’s presence seemed to be able to help with the pain better than even the oxycodone could. Bobby shook his head lightly as he worked. They loved each other more than anything, but they couldn’t keep going on like this. These boys needed a home, needed to settle and quit this life. Seeing them like this made him feel scared and hurt, and Bobby Singer hated to be scared and hurt and helpless to assuage his loved ones’ pain. He shouldn’t be sitting here patching up a little boy that he had helped raise.  


He glanced up at Dean, saw the wetness on his face from his own tears at watching Sam hurt. Seventeen. This boy was seventeen, and caring for his little brother all on his own, the weight of the sky on his shoulders as he whispered, “Almost, done, Sammy-Sam,” to the kid that Bobby knew was his world. It really wasn’t healthy, this obsessive devotion to each other. This hero worship in Sam’s eyes, this will to break the world apart for Sam in Dean’s. It nearly made Bobby start cursing John Winchester out loud.  


Finally, Bobby tied off the last stitch, said, quietly, “Good job, Sam. I’m gonna clean up and go getcha some more water, okay?”  


No response from the shaking, sweating Sam, but Dean nodded at him as he brushed Sam’s hair out carefully with his fingers before finally pulling away. Sam whined at the loss, high on endorphins, eyes a little glassy with pain and drugs. “Hey, hush, Sammy, need to cover these with bandages.” As he began taping gauze over the wounds, Sam reached out and gripped the hem of his shirt, and Dean whispered reassuringly, “You did so good, so proud of you, baby. It’s over. You’re safe with me, hmm? You’re okay.”  


Sam tugged lightly on Dean’s shirt. “You ‘kay, Dee?” he slurred as Bobby finished putting away supplies and gathered the bloody towels. “ ‘M fine, Sammy,” Dean murmured as he finished bandaging and worked Sam’s jeans down his legs.  


“Got you on the shoulder,” Sam mumbled tiredly.  


“I’ll have Bobby look, promise. Gonna move you to the other bed so you can sleep. Doesn’t look like you have a concussion, but I’m gonna try to wake you in a few hours, ‘kay?”  


Sam nodded and held his arms out, wrapping them around Dean’s neck as his big brother scooped him up and deposited him gently onto the other bed. Dean stroked Sam’s hair out of the way and tucked it behind his ears. Bobby took the opportunity to look at Dean’s back, and sure enough, his right shoulder was bloodied. He hadn’t even noticed until just then, and left the lid of the med kit open before heading back downstairs.  


He filled two glasses of water, grabbed a bottle of scotch, and took them up to the boys, watched as Dean tucked the covers tighter around Sam. He placed both glasses on the nightstand. Dean grabbed one and propped Sam up momentarily, coaxing him to drink most of it, then downing the rest himself.  


“Show me that shoulder, kid.”  


Dean sighed, but slowly peeled off his shirt with a wince. Bobby had him sit down on the bloodied bed and turned him toward the lamplight, Sam watching them, but it was clear that he was on the edge of sleep despite fighting valiantly to stay awake to make sure Dean was okay. Three scratches stretched from the top of Dean’s shoulder down to the edge of its blade. Not nearly as bad as Sam’s gouges, but the middle one seemed like it’d need the most stitches.  


Bobby downed a shot of scotch and placed the bottle on the nightstand. When Dean reached for it, he grunted in disapproval. The older Winchester brother shot him a look, making him sigh cantankerously, “Only one shot, got it? Don’t give a shit that you “can handle more.”” Dean gave him a tired grin, and Bobby felt a painful twinge in his heart at how very much like John’s it was in that moment—aged and without joy.  


Dean held perfectly still, allowing Bobby to fix him up much faster than he did Sam. When he was done, Dean carefully pulled a fresh shirt over his head and bent over his little brother, saying, “See? I’m good. Now go to sleep.”  


Sam nodded, curling his fist into the hem of Dean’s shirt from the inside so that his knuckles pressed against Dean’s bare stomach. “Love you,” he mumbled, blinking slowly as sleep began to overtake him. Dean took his hand and held it for a moment, squeezing, before dropping a soft kiss on Sam’s temple. “You too, Sammy.”  


He turned to help Bobby strip the bloodied sheets off the bed and carried them bunched up in his arms as they went downstairs to soak them with the towels in the hot water-filled tub.  


“What happened, Dean?” Bobby asked as they wrung out the blood.  


“Black dog over in Rumpus Ridge. We were on our way here when we caught wind of a salt and burn. Went to the graveyard to burn the bones, got surprised by the black dog.”  


“Dean, you still should have called me about the hunt—”  


“I can take care of myself, Bobby. I don’t need you to parent me.”  


“ _Damn it_ , boy, I am not having this argument with you again—”  


“Then don’t! Just stop—”  


“Enough, Dean! Listen, kid, I know we got into a fight before about this and hell, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you two to be huntin’, you are far too young to be doing it on your own—don’t you interrupt me, boy,” he said as Dean opened his mouth in protest, “—I still think that you two should be living here instead of looking for your Dad, but I’m not going to argue with you about it again right now, okay? That’s a fight for another time. But you _will_ be keeping me updated on every single hunt you go on. Is. That. Clear?”  


Dean sputtered, and before Bobby could find out whether it was from protest or surprise, he interrupted, saying, gentler this time, “I just don’t want anything bad happening to you two again. Think about Sam here, Dean.”  


Dean’s eyes flashed, like _Of course I’m thinking about Sam, I’m_ always _thinking about Sam_ , but he didn’t say the words. He didn’t have to. He hesitated a moment, then nodded.  


Bobby nodded once, a confirmation. “Good. And you’re staying here for the next couple of weeks while Sam recovers. Now go get some rest. I’ll finish up here. You know where the clean sheets are.”  


It showed how tired he was that Dean didn’t even hesitate, much less protest. Bobby continued to work in silence, scrubbing at the blood of the two people he cared for most in the world. He gritted his teeth, angry, so fucking angry at John. Who was he to leave his boys behind like this? How _dare_ he hurt them like this?  


He took a deep breath to calm himself, and after several long minutes of cleaning, he got to his feet—knees creaking and back stiff—pulled his flask from his pocket, and took a long drink. Going back to his study, he organized his abandoned work, then puttered around the house, locking the windows and front door and checking the salt lines embedded in the door jamb and window sills.  


It was about an hour before he went to check on the boys. Dean had made up the bed closer to the door with fresh sheets, but he was sleeping in the same single bed as Sam, curled protectively around him, avoiding the injured side of his body. Sam had his head tipped against Dean’s chest, hand on his hip, Dean’s legs wrapped around Sam’s and hand buried in his hair.  


A mix of emotions flooded Bobby. More anger at John, worry for his boys—God, _so much worry_ —and deep affection. He smiled a little at the sight in front of him, recalling a time several years ago when he found at his door a man with haunted eyes, a sweet-faced, gurgling baby in one arm, and a huge hand enveloping the tiny one belonging to the silent boy with watchful bottle-green eyes at his side. Remembered when he let them stay the night, and found that the little boy had climbed his way into the baby’s crib and slept around him like he did now.  


*  


John had been nervous when he asked for help but had hid it well—to anyone but a hunter, his emotions were pretty well under control. Bobby asked him why he was doing this, apprehensive about helping train the father of two little boys in the hunt, already gearing to refuse.  


“My wife was murdered. I need to kill the son of a bitch that did it.”  


Bobby remembered saying those same words to Rufus. His certain “No, I can’t help you,” wobbled on the tip of his tongue, caught behind his teeth.  


It didn’t exactly help when he looked at those little boys and back at John, saw in his eyes that he was going to hunt whether Bobby helped him or not.  


And, well, those kids were damned cute.  


So he accepted and worked with John, let them stay with him for several weeks while John got his bearings. He spent his evenings teaching John about monsters, spent his nights learning from him about how to take care of children. Of course, every time he tried to get near Sam, those first couple of weeks, Dean would materialize out of fucking nowhere and snap his teeth at him without saying a word. The first day, he ignored the warning. Next thing he knew, the tiny fucker bit him, hard, little teeth razor sharp and more painful than many an animal bite he’d received. He’d muffled curses while John muffled laughter and said, “Dean’s a little protective.” _Yeah, no fucking shit_.  


He obeyed the scary small devil’s warning after that.  


And, thing was, Dean was _polite_ , even though he wasn’t speaking. He was patient while waiting to be fed, didn’t fuss, didn’t throw tantrums. But get near Sam, and he turned into a fury, spitting and hissing. John always reprimanded him for the behavior, then scooped him up onto his lap and stroked over his hair and told him that Bobby was safe. A week later, Bobby was able to touch Sam without having Dean’s teeth imprinted on his arm for four days. A week after that, Dean allowed Bobby to hold Sam to feed and burp him for a whole ten minutes, until Sam started to cry. Dean was up off the couch so fast he almost tripped, and Bobby motioned him back to the couch and placed Sam on his lap, the baby quieting almost immediately, wrapping his little fist around Dean’s pointer finger and shoving it into his mouth to gnaw on. Dean warmed up to Bobby a lot more after that, tugging on Bobby’s shirt directly and pointing when he wanted something from him instead of using his father as a medium.  


And Sam. He didn’t cry often, but when he did, _holy shit_ , he went for it, wailing like a banshee. Most of the time, he was giggling and exploring, but Bobby’s house wasn’t exactly baby-proof. While Bobby near-panicked every time Sam got near something dangerous, John would just scoop the baby up, tickle his stomach, and either keep him on his lap or hand him off to Dean.  


John was the quickest study Bobby has ever seen. Already well trained in combat, he didn’t need much else except help with languages and lore. He sat up long after Bobby went to bed, poring over books and feeding Sam every few hours. From across the table, Bobby often watched him making notes from large dusty books while nudging things out of Sam’s searching reach, working on a puzzle with Dean, and humming intermittently to soothe his baby. Every other night, the large dusty book would be replaced with a storybook and an armful of Dean with Sam on his lap.  


At night, John would wipe a crying, scared Dean’s tears away and tuck him into bed.  


Bobby had never seen a man be father and hunter before.  


But John got restless. Three months into their stay, he decided that he wanted to go on a hunt alone. _Need to take off the training wheels sometime, Singer_.  


He got injured, badly, by a black dog. Managed to somehow get himself to a hospital. When Bobby hung up with them, Dean was already staring, wide-eyed and afraid. He looked so terrified that Bobby bundled him and Sam up and booked it to the hospital.  


John looked awful, but let Dean clamber on top of him, squeezing him into his less injured side. When he told Dean to go back with Bobby, Dean shook his head no, emphatically.  


“I know you’re scared, Dean. But I need you to go and take care of Sammy, okay?”  


John knew that was the only thing that could make Dean leave.  


The first time he heard Dean’s voice was that night, after the little boy whispered a story to Sam in his crib. He said “Uncle Bobby,” climbed right into his lap, and cried so hard that little screams racked his body.  


Bobby held him tight. And if tears ran down his face, too, well. Dean wouldn’t remember.  


It took weeks for John to heal completely, and two weeks after that, he packed up, grabbed his boys, and hit the road, with promises to drop in often and not be “a complete fucking moron.”  


It went on like that for years, John dropping in for a couple of weeks at a time, leaving his boys with Bobby when he was on an especially hot trail and staying for a drink and shop talk, teaching his sons to hunt and becoming less and less like the man who’d kiss Sam’s forehead and hug Dean tight.  


Until, when Dean was fifteen and Sam just-turned eleven, he and John had gotten into yet another fight about the way he was raising his boys, and John had shouted at him about _I’m their father, not you, don’t you tell me how to raise my sons_ , and Bobby had shouted back about how _they don’t deserve this, any of this, a real father would_ be _there for them_.  


_How would you know_?! John shouted.  


Bobby had gotten so angry (John knew, he fucking _knew_ that it was a sensitive subject, and they were both too fucking stubborn) that he pointed his uncocked shotgun at John and told him to leave.  


John had left, Sam and Dean in tow, eyes flashing with anger.  


But he’d still had that fire, that determination and fierceness to protect and avenge.  


Bobby had wondered, when he first saw that look in John years ago, whether those two—protection for the boys and vengeance for Mary—could exist at the same time.  


The answer, learned too late: not without sacrificing one for the other.  


And he’d made his choice.  


*  


He closed the door to the boys’ room quietly.  


Walked downstairs and out the back door into the cool night air. Pulling his phone out by the light of the moon, he scrolled down to a contact he hadn’t called in two years.  


He dialed. Took a deep breath.  


“This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean 866-907-3235. He can help.” _Beep_.  


Biting down on his anger to keep from yelling, he said, “Listen up, John. Sam’s hurt, Dean is too. They’re at my place. I’m givin’ them a place to stay for the next few weeks. You need to get your ass back here and be there for your boys. You need to keep them safe. They deserve more than this.”  


Letting some of the cold fury leak into his voice, he continued, “Sam and Dean don’t deserve what you’re doing to them. God knows why they want you back so much, but they do. They need you. I’m willing to put everything aside here, John. Just get back here and I won’t even shoot you in the goddamn face,” he finished, and hung up, snapping the phone shut and jamming it into his pocket.  


He took a swig from his flask, stared up at the moon, a circle of white against the black of night. He turned around to face his house, looking up at the closed window behind which his favorite people slept safe. Worried and angry at their father, who had once, long ago, been one of the people he really cared about.  


“Damn it, John. Damn you,” he said out loud, and walked back through the open door.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at @wordsfallapart !
> 
> if you want to see the posts that inspired the majority of this work, check out @marymotherof on tumblr, in her 'teenage au' tag!


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